Tip-Top Poem by Floyd Crenshaw

sitting on my mountain's top
snorting like some pig eating from a truffle trough
rounding like some vulture over valium's vault

it's 4: 10 a.m.
i'm spoiled again.

depressed and alone.

idiotically
planting a bouquet of
'forget-it-alls'.

hard to sleep
with the wind cutting
slits through the blankets.
i induce
restless leg syndrome
to warm up.

too damaged to create
anything other than ugliness.

at the top of my mountain
i hate myself.

the journey was quick
and
i've been sitting here for hours
plenty of fire,
but nothing to cook
or anything to do.

i came for some answer, but
i realize now
i left her hours ago.

the wind holds no congratulations
no scent of victory.

the view stands simple and cold
like a photo
jaded in some shoe box.

the silence carries no remedy
no ailment for my heightened doubt
just paranoia.

when i return
i will be sick.

not bed ridden but something close.

walking pneumonia
numb sounds,
information delays and
poor circulation.

a chemical imbalance
stone neurons
speed towards
flower-petal receptors.

pummeling
not addiction but its close cousin.

i chose this spot to
escape shame,
debt and
failure.

how very mature....